


Lonely Moon

by obelisque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Draco Malfoy-centric, Harry Continues to be a Human Disaster, Heavy Angst, Horcrux Hunting, Longsuffering Godfather Severus, M/M, Magical Alignments, Magnificent Bastard Draco, Moral Ambiguity, On the Run, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Werewolf Draco Malfoy, Wizarding History, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obelisque/pseuds/obelisque
Summary: "—Shut up! Just shut up, Malfoy!” Potter yelled, making an abortive lunge at him, only for Draco to rear back and spit in his face. Potter then grabbed him by the shoulders, eliciting a fresh surge of pain from the motion, and began to shake him roughly.Draco just laughed at him. He laughed and laughed. He laughed until he began to sob, and was racked by shudders from the force of it. Throughout it all, Potter did not release his grip on him, nor did he quit staring down at him with a look of furious, nearly agonized incomprehension.“What are you going to do, Potter—kill me? I think last night proved you incapable of that,” he hissed, baiting him further.-In which Draco betrays the Dark Lord in spectacular fashion, goes on the run, and falls in love. If only he had avoided becoming a werewolf.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Severus Snape, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 84





	1. The Wolf and the Stag, Reprise

_The Wolf and the Stag, Reprise_

I

In the late summer of his sixteenth year, around when the end of break approached, Draco realized he was going to die. There was no epiphany, or sudden return to morality; it came in slow gradations, and as the Dark Lord’s occupancy wore on, it seemed to him the inevitable conclusion of their involvement. Their lord was impulsive and easily provoked, and would oscillate from one emotional extreme to another with little warning. At some point, Draco going to do or say the wrong thing and that would be it. Dead. And on a whim, at that. The illustrious Malfoy line cut short before the turn of the twenty-first century.

They were already being punished as it was. The Dark Lord seemed to delight in reminding them of their estrangement from his inner circle: shunned from meetings held in their own home and humiliated by the others at every turn. This from a filthy half-blood usurper who called himself their ruler. Bellatrix’s sycophantic devotion to him was beyond intolerable, allegiance predicated on delusion and fantasy rather than any semblance of rational thought. Blood came before all else, but where was her loyalty now? To the Dark Lord? Certainly not with her family.

The first time she pointed her wand at his mother, Draco had been unable to keep from interfering; he’d thrown himself bodily between the two and caught the _Cruciatus_ mid-air, instantly racked by the worst pain he’d ever felt. His aunt had not paused at all: just laughed and laughed. Yaxley had resumed his mother’s torture all the while Draco screamed himself raw, blood foaming at the corners of his mouth like he was some animal. He learned quickly that meddling only made things worse. Those lessons had come easy.

His sole refuge was his mind. Occlumency allowed him to retreat into himself and look on with dispassion. If the mind could be anything, then his was a labyrinth: compressed into a series of interlocking passages that caged the seething resentment burning darkly within him. He could not show his discontent, his doubt. The others were ruled by emotion, not reason; ingratiating themselves to a man whose heritage they purported to despise. There was no order to their cause, and it had become apparent to him that reinstating pureblood supremacy was merely a convenient smokescreen to mask the Dark Lord’s grasp for power. But Draco was not strong enough to oppose them, so he would continue to play the coward and the fool, even if he had to watch his parents be degraded, his aunt prostrate herself before a half-blood, and was forced to torture muggles or dissenters day after day. He would say nothing, because there was nothing to be done.

Then he was given an impossible task. Perhaps he should have been surprised, but the Dark Lord did not take failure lightly. He was expected to fail. It would simply be the latest in a series of humiliations. Narcissa had a permanent tremor in her wand hand now. His father looked half-starved and hunted. As for him… well, it didn’t matter. If he stayed, he would only prolong the inevitable. But even knowing that, he couldn’t bring himself to leave; and even if he did, they would kill him anyways. There was no alternative recourse for him or his family. That had been lost the moment his father took the mark.

Draco arrived at this conclusion while peering into the broken vanishing cabinet at Borgin and Burke’s. He found clarity in the darkness. It was there he thought of Graham Montague, caught between Hogwarts and Knockturn Alley; the old volumes of forbidden magic secreted away within the hidden compartment of his trunk, those Black Family Grimoires his mother had given to him on the eve of his eleventh birthday; and the impulsivity of the Death Eaters, how they demeaned and belittled him… They would never expect him to turn against them. Not Draco Malfoy. He was just as slavishly faithful as his Aunt Bellatrix, and as much a part of the collective as the others were. There was no touch of dissent in him. No sense of pride or family honor.

A plan began to take shape in his mind. At first simply the vague notion of a ploy for escape, it quickly took on a different purpose entirely. He could construct a trap. Not easily, and not without exercising a great deal of caution. But it could be done. He could actually do it, and succeed at that, Draco realized. It would require a great deal of patience, cunning, and misdirection. It would necessitate a discretion from him that lived up to the reputation of his House. It would likely end with his death, and the deaths of everyone he’d ever cared about. But that was inevitable. He was certain that no matter what happened, whether it was Potter or the Dark Lord who emerged the victor, his family would end up a casualty. To him, and to his parents, death was preferable to slavery.

At least now, they would be free.

II

The year passed in a haze. His time was divided between fulfilling the role of “Malfoy,” and working tirelessly on the cabinet. But opening the connection was only the beginning, if his grimoires were to be believed. First, the vanishing cabinet would need to be repaired, and only then could the he begin to ward it. The sigils were going to take the longest. Inscribed with an athame comprised of goblin-forged silver, and filled in with the blood of the caster, they would encompass the entirety of both the exterior and interior of the Hogwarts cabinet. The other needed nothing, save for someone to take that first step into the doorway. He suspected the process of fully warding it would take until spring.

In the interim, Draco periodically orchestrated assassination attempts aimed at the headmaster. They were easily thwarted, and designed to fail. If he really wanted to kill Dumbledore, he would have simply laced one of his utensils with a contact poison. Death would not be instantaneous, but rather, come later in the day: a seizure of the heart, one which would at first glance appear to be a natural occurrence. No one would ever know, because they would never think to look. It was the kind of murder that purebloods specialized in. Besides, the headmaster was already cursed; and with something lethal, too. Draco’s work was already done. All he had to do was wait.

He slept little, and did not dream. His head was full up with dark magic and thoughts of his parents. The letters he received from them were few and far between, and laden deep with melancholy. They were trying to be strong, but he could see them faltering. They suffered daily at the hands of the Dark Lord, and the law was poised against them. It was not weakness, though, not to him. After months in Azkaban and then internment in the manor, who could feel otherwise? The Malfoys and Blacks disgraced; their lords and heirs living under the threat of death or torture from mudbloods and half-breeds alike. And in their own home, no less. There was no honor in servitude. That was what he had been told all his life. His mother and father wanted to be free. So he would free them, and then himself.

Even though he was intent upon his course, there were times Draco could feel licks of doubt or despair intrude upon his cold peace. He found it was easier to retreat from them rather than give into the baser elements of the self. Unrestrained emotion recalled too easily the meetings that had taken place at the manor over the summer; not the inner circle’s seemingly permanent occupation there, but those special gatherings that required every active member’s presence. There had been a feverish atmosphere about them, quiet and raucous by turns as the Dark Lord spoke and then paused to await their response, the sibilant cadence of his voice almost hypnotic in the darkness of the room.

Bellatrix, Yaxley, and Dolohov were the most fervent in their worship during these meetings, euphoric in either torturing or being tortured by the Dark Lord, who was often content to simply preside over the chaos. After their… performance reviews were completed, the night would then climax in the mutilation and subsequent execution of a muggle, blood-traitor, or mudblood. Sometimes there would be more than one, and sometimes Greyback would eat the corpses raw after. The house-elves had become used to mopping blood off the floor.

As the end of spring drew closer, his work on the cabinet quickly approached completion. The warding was finished, and now he only needed to finish the blood sacrifice. That would be done the night of the ritual, which could be performed on the night of a full moon, right as the sun descended behind the horizon. The next suitable date was the coming Friday, and so all he had to do was hold out until then. It would all be over soon. He only had to last the remainder of the week.

But there were variables he could not control: the interference of his godfather and that damnable Potter, who couldn’t seem to bloody well keep to himself. He was obviously suspicious of him, and shadowed Draco almost daily now: always hidden beneath his cloak, but rendered identifiable to him by the soft noises he made, little breaths and muted curses that he seemed unable to bite back. How Potter had ever caught anyone unawares was beyond him. In retaliation, he deployed a disguised Crabbe and Goyle as decoys to divert Potter’s attention, and to prevent him from ever reaching the Room of Requirement while Draco was at work. It was only a matter of time before he was discovered, an apprehension heightened by the constant sensation of Potter’s gaze upon him—watching, unwaveringly, eyes livid against the brown of his face.

The last Friday of April arrived. He went about his routine as usual, but was noticeably more on edge. Although he suppressed the fractious stab of anxiety thoughts of the ritual produced, he felt it seeping through regardless. Blaise and Daphne noticed this, but commented only once. Potter seemed very aware of him, and even sat next to Draco in Potions. Tense, and almost thrumming with agitation, Potter ignored the carefully apportioned ingredients he’d lain out for them, and proceeded to mangle their potion. If not for the fact that he was clearly trying to instigate a fight, Draco would have sought out some petty form of revenge. But he really couldn’t be bothered at this point. He left Potter, still fuming, standing over the charred remnants of their sleeping draught.

Early that evening, Draco slipped away to the Room of Requirement. The vanishing cabinet, more angular and imposing than ever, had been finished. Next came the rest of the sacrifice: a runic circle composed of blood drawn around the cabinet, which resided in the center. He pressed the tip of his athame to the inner juncture of his left arm and slashed a neat line to his wrist that bisected the Dark Mark. Licks of red welled up at once, and he began to draw with feverish abandon. The process took some time. Throughout it all he tipped back the occasional blood-replenishing potion, but did not pause for either pain or discomfort. The sigils were almost alive in their own right, and were finicky about the ritual, and therefore required an attentiveness that simpler variants did not.

There were the runic arrays taught at Hogwarts, diluted by blood-traitors to pander to mudbloods and to appease the ministry, and then there were _runes_ —ancient, powerful avenues of invocation, and known only by the oldest families in Wizarding Britain. His father had likewise been ignorant, but his mother was steeped in the old ways. Because she was not a Malfoy but a Black, and their family magics had always been predicated on blood and sacrifice. If one word were to describe the system it abided by then it would be _tithe_ ; for something taken, something too must be given in return. When tithes did not come freely, the results tended to be… unpleasant. Like her, he too was a Black before anything else. She made him what he was. If anyone would understand what he was doing, and _why_ he was doing it, then it was her.

Now finished, Draco sat back on his heels and inspected his work. It appeared outwardly flawless, if visually crude, and all that was left was the incantation. He turned the blade on himself and carved the activation rune into the palms of both hands. Already he could feel the magic catch flame and burn darkly within his mind, and Draco let out a shaky breath at that. He gazed up at the cabinet.

“ _Et sanguis sanguinem. Magicae magicae est. Accipere quod offertur,_ ” he chanted, arms raised heavenward. “ _Et sanguis sanguinem. Magicae magicae est. Accipere quod offertur._ ” Blood to blood. Magic to magic. Accept my offer.

The circle began to glow from within, each sigil lighting up as they activated one by one. Around it a dome composed of red-hued light formed—flickering and diaphanous at first, but then gaining solidity the longer he spoke. In return, the cabinet too shuddered in tandem with his chanting; runes there imbued with the same blood as the circle, and with complementary arrays. The Black Kill Wards were complete.

When it was done, Draco let out a shaky breath. He felt electric, strange, and not quite in control of himself. Maintaining the wards was beginning to take its toll. He withdrew the two-way mirror with trembling hands, and whispered his mother’s name. It flickered and revealed her tired face.

“Mother, the cabinet is finished.”

He knew they would make her enter first. But she would help him, of that he was certain. Blood called to blood.

“Good,” she said softly, voice run through with a trill of weariness. “I will come through to… inspect your work.”

Draco set the mirror down and withdrew two more objects from within the folds of his robes: Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and the Hand of Glory he’d purchased from Borgin and Burke’s at the beginning of the year. After his mother entered, he’d activate the powder to ensure as many Death Eaters followed as possible before realizing what he’d done. No sense in not maximizing the casualties. His lips curved into a tremulous smile, one that thinned further when his mother finally appeared. Narcissa looked more haggard than ever, robes hanging loosely on her emaciated frame, but still she retained an atmosphere of dignity about her.

“Oh, my son,” she breathed, eyes flashing with recognition. “You have done well. We will see each other again very soon, won’t we?”

“It won’t be long at all,” he said. “Only a little while.”

She turned to speak to the collection of Death Eaters gathered in Borgin’s. “Draco has succeeded. It will be dark, but do not worry. My son will show you the way.”

His mother reappeared at the mouth of the cabinet, but this time did not hesitate and crossed the threshold. Immediately she was pulled forward into the circle proper, body jerked into the air by the invisible threads of magic he’d woven. The wards were not powered by him, but rather by the magic of its victims, who were held in suspension until completely drained. They were both the catalyst and the conduit for the Black Kill Wards. His mother did not scream, and almost looked peaceful to him. It would not be long until he looked that way, too.

Once he spied the silhouettes of the others approaching, Draco dispersed the powder and all went dark. The Hand of Glory indeed gave light to the holder, but it rendered the world odd and slightly out of focus. There was enough clarity for him to see this through, though, and he watched with satisfaction as from the cabinet spilled Bellatrix, his uncles, Yaxley, Dolohov, Wormtail, the Carrows, Crabbe, Goyle, Rosier, Nott, Selwyn, and finally, his father. He closed his eyes as they began to thrash and scream, not noticing the sharp intake of breath behind him. One by one, they each ran dry and were left to collapse and sprawl motionlessly across the floor. The wards died instantly at the loss.

Draco sagged forward. He felt empty and wrung-out, and quite content to let himself bleed out there on the floor. But from within the depths of the cabinet came a familiar voice: the grinding, animalistic rasp of Greyback. He was supposed to be in Wales, but when did anything bloody well go as intended? Draco staggered to his feet and moved away from the cabinet. He could not let loose a feral half-breed into the school, and certainly not on a full moon. He did not draw his wand, but rather, his athame. Spells rarely worked against dark creatures, even unforgivables, but silver was always effective.

“Blood,” Greyback said, sounding delighted. “I smell blood. I smell death and dark magic. I want student blood, and student flesh. It is the full moon, and I am so very hungry. Let me take some, and I will kill whomever you want.” He emerged from the cabinet, glee waning quickly as he detected who, exactly, the source of the stench was.

“Oh no,” came a soft voice from behind him. Potter. That—utter and completely empty-headed idiot! Draco didn’t know when he’d slipped in, or how, but what he did know was that he could not allow Greyback to eat the bloody Chosen One.

“Traitor! Filth! You will pay for this, Malfoy! I’ll kill you! It won’t be quick. I’ll savor you and eat you slowly—one limb at a time. You’ll beg me to end it, but I won’t. If you think this false darkness will save you, then you are mistaken. You cannot fool the senses of a wolf—” Greyback cut himself off, nostrils flaring. He turned to where Potter must have been hiding under the invisibility cloak. “Harry Potter… how stupid of you to come here. I’ll deliver you to the Dark Lord, but not before I’ve had my pound of flesh.”

Greyback lunged towards Potter, features contorting until they were half-transformed. The moon had not yet risen, but he had given as much of himself over to the wolf as he was able. Draco was moving before he’d even realized what he had done, and leapt in-between the two with no other thoughts than intercepting Greyback. He felt, rather than saw Greyback’s maw clamp over his face, teeth sinking into the soft flesh underneath his cheekbone and above the crest of his left brow. Draco screamed, more a sound of fury than of pain. He raised the athame and jabbed it into the back Greyback’s skull, right above the nape of his neck, the skin around there sizzling and sloughing off. Throughout it all Greyback did not release his bite, nor did he stop scoring deep lines into Draco’s chest and back, leaving his robes slick with blood.

“Die!” He shrieked, stabbing him again. “Die! Die, half-breed filth!” Draco pulled the knife out again and shoved it between the notches of Greyback’s spine, and felt him still instantly. They toppled to the floor together, and the fall knocked the Hand of Glory out of Draco’s grasp. The athame remained lodged in Greyback’s skull.

After a moment, there was the sound of uncertain footsteps. He felt someone touch him, almost gently, and then the abrupt loss of Greyback’s weight. His breath rattled wetly in his chest. Draco was ready to die.

“I need a door! Please, just give me a door!” Potter yelled, voice thin. “A way out of here!” The room constricted and shrunk around them, and a doorway materialized upon the rapidly approaching wall.

Potter dragged Draco out into the corridor, which he recognized only distantly, as the world faded ever more quickly at the edges. Only the color of Potter’s eyes remained clear now, and they looked almost impossibly green. He smelled of mint, and of the outdoors; a contrast to the lingering odor of spoiled meat leftover from Greyback.

“It’s okay, Potter. I’m ready,” he said, blinking blood away. “I’m going to see my mother again, and my father…”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Come on, Malfoy. We’re almost to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey, she—she’ll fix you right up. It’ll only be a little while yet.”

Nothing more was said until they reached the hospital wing. Potter kicked open the door and half-dragged, half-carried Draco inside.

“Help us!” Potter said desperately. “Madam Pomfrey! Malfoy’s been attacked!”

Distantly, he heard the clattering of heels. “What happened?” Pomfrey said. “Oh my, Mr. Malfoy! Who did this to you?”

“Greyback. He—he’s dead, I think? But he bit him, right there on his bloody face. Clawed him up too, I reckon.”

Pomfrey glanced out the window. “By Merlin, it’s the full moon. Everybody out! Evacuate the infirmary! Anyone who can walk, leave now! Mr. Potter, help the others. I have to stabilize him before he changes.” She flicked her wand at Draco and levitated him onto the nearest gurney.

“Just let me die,” Draco slurred, sounding faint even to his own ears. “I don’t want to live like this. I’m ready. I promise, I’m ready.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Malfoy. You are going to live,” she said firmly, cutting open the front of his robes and examining the damage. “Mr. Potter, are you still here?”

“Yes! What can I do?” Potter said, somewhat breathlessly.

“The others have left, yes?”

“Of course!”

“Then get me two blood-replenishing potions, a vial of moon-balm…” Her voice faded as the darkness wavering on the periphery of his vision encroached further. He was slipping away, and not even Pomfrey could stop it now.

But then there was a growl, not outwardly audible but originating from deep within the labyrinth he’d constructed for himself. It growled again, and _pushed._ At this, something inside him fractured on impact, something important, and Draco felt the corridors of his mind collapse as the wolf began to prowl freely. He was quickly losing any semblance of control he’d once possessed, and it was becoming more difficult to articulate his thoughts.

His back bowed upwards off the bed. “Just do it! Fuck off and let me die! On my honor as a Malfoy and a Black, just kill me!” he screamed—no, yowled, like an animal. He struck out blindly, delirious with pain and in shock from the loss of his occlumency shields.

“Malfoy, stop it! She’s trying to help you!”

“Fuck off! Just fuck off! Half-blood filth!” He yelled, twisting away from Potter and felt his bones contort unpleasantly in response. There was the sound of something splintering, and then popping as thing began to be forced out of place. Distantly, he heard someone retch. It sounded like Potter.

In his final moments of lucidity, he remembered begging them to kill him. Draco remembered crying out and spitting until he could no longer speak but only growl. He remembered feeling as though his blood was boiling from the heat of the change, and that no one could survive such pain.

“Potter, leave now! He’s about to change! Barricade the doors and get Headmaster Dumbledore!” Pomfrey said, aiming her wand his way. But that was all he could remember before the wolf took over.

Then he was lost.


	2. What Strange Symphonies

_What Strange Symphonies_

I

He dreamed of wolves. There was no higher thought, only sensation; and at first he was daunted by it, but then the freedom of being an animal took over. The blood between his teeth satisfied something deep within him, and the grass beneath his paws was impossibly soft. He could not speak, yet felt no need to. Light from the full moon trickled through the canopy of branches overhead, and as he drew further into the wood the undergrowth became harder to pass. But still he pressed on, though; faster, quicker, until he was moving with such force he was almost flying. Beyond the next turn was a small clearing, and at the far end stood a stag with startlingly green eyes, presiding over a pool of water. He approached it with no fatal intent, and instead pressed himself up against the stag, inhaling the smell of mint—

Draco awoke with a shuddering gasp, the last vestiges of his dream fading away until he could recall any of it at all. After the initial shock of displacement subsided, the world seemed to right itself and his surroundings became evident. There was the familiar vaulted ceiling of the Hogwarts infirmary above him, and the taste of antiseptic sat heavily upon his tongue. It took him a moment to realize, exactly, why he was there. The events of the night prior seemed suddenly very far away, almost like they had happened to someone else entirely.

But the deep ache of the change in his bones was proof enough, not to mention the tattered fragments of his carefully-constructed mental landscape. Even now, he could feel the wolf prowling around within the ruins of his mind, like it was an animate thing in its own right. He cringed away from it as much as he was able, repulsed by the primal atmosphere that marked the beast’s presence. Still it would not leave him. The wound around his eye ached.

It had been some time since Draco had been this intimate with the baser elements of the self. But he could not collect himself enough to try and reform them, and the despair welling up within him threatened to spill over. He tried to sit up, only to find that he was bound to the hospital bed by several sets of sturdy, silvery ropes. _Incarcerous._ Tied down like an animal. Perhaps that was because it was true. His face flushed in humiliation at the thought, and a film of salt pricked at his eyes. He had never felt so alone. Here he was, in a purgatory of his own making. Draco had no one to blame save for himself.

There was an awkward cough. “Er, Malfoy?” The voice came from behind the curtains, and a brown hand peeked through to part them. Potter looked a right mess, hair standing on end and covered with what Draco assumed was his own blood. Hot shame cut through him at that.

“Have you come to laugh? Funny, isn’t it?” Draco ground out, straining against his bonds. “Just what I deserve, right?”

“I don’t find this funny at all,” Potter said, voice raw with honesty. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. The smell of mint still clung to him, beneath the gore and sick. Damnable half-breed senses. It almost recalled something of the dream, but what it was he couldn’t say.

Draco sagged back into the bed. “Why are you even here?” He asked, not looking at him.

“You saved my life, and you killed all those Death Eaters. Even your own parents—God, Malfoy, why?”

“I wouldn’t expect a half-blood like _you_ , raised in ignorance of your own circumstances, to understand honor.”

Potter’s face darkened. “Then educate me,” he bit out, hands clenching like he was restraining himself from physically accosting Draco. “Since you’re such an expert.”

“My parents had become little more than servants to a mad half-blood with delusions of nobility. The Malfoy and Black lines disgraced; their lords and heir made to bow before the bastard offspring of the Gaunt line. They raised me better than that—to value the honor of our families over all else. Even if they forgot it, _I_ hadn’t. I was doing what should have been done all along. This… was a way to free us, and to revenge our deaths in the process.”

Potter’s eyes flashed. “You heartless bastard, don’t you care about them? They were your parents!”

“There are worse things in this world than death,” Draco said, thinking of Greyback, his Aunt Bellatrix, and now himself. “I’m sure Longbottom would tell you something similar.”

“Don’t you dare bring him into this, not after your aunt—”

“What? Tortured them into insanity? As though my family hasn’t gone through the same bloody thing? You want to know what it feels like to be _crucioed_ over and over again? Until you’re twitching and foaming at the mouth? Or, how it feels to watch your mother cry out from the pain, knowing you can do nothing to stop it—”

“—Shut up! Just shut up, Malfoy!” Potter yelled, making an abortive lunge at him, only for Draco to rear back and spit in his face. Potter then grabbed him by the shoulders, eliciting a fresh surge of pain from the motion, and began to shake him roughly.

Draco just laughed at him. He laughed and laughed. He laughed until he began to sob, and was racked by shudders from the force of it. Throughout it all, Potter did not release his grip on him, nor did he quit staring down at him with a look of furious, nearly agonized incomprehension.

“What are you going to do, Potter—kill me? I think last night proved you incapable of that,” he hissed, baiting him further.

Potter flushed angrily. “Why, you—”

“Mr. Potter, what in Merlin’s name are you doing?” A female voice shrieked, followed by the rapid appearance of Madame Pomfrey.

Potter let go like he’d been scalded. “Sorry! We were just—” He had the gall to actually sound apologetic, and stared at his hands like wasn’t quite sure what had come over him.

“Just what, exactly?” His godfather hissed, billowing in from behind Pomfrey. He looked drawn, and as though he hadn’t slept in days. “Accosting the victim of a brutal attack? I admire your callousness, Potter. I truly do. Now go, before I make you.”

Potter quickly retreated, but not after shooting him another one of those searching, wild-eyed looks. The lingering scent of mint punctuated his departure. Pomfrey glanced between them, then sat several odious-looking potions atop his bedside table before taking her leave, too.

“…Sir,” Draco acknowledged stiffly. “I should have known you were working for Dumbledore, but I suppose it’s preferable to the alternative.”

He grimaced. “You have made a terrible choice, Draco. It’s one I don’t envy you for.”

“I knew what they wanted, and if either of them had been in their right mind, then they would have done the same. I’m sure of it.”

“It is one I do not blame you for. I only wish you would’ve come to me for help. Perhaps I could’ve gotten them out in time. Or Narcissa, at least.”

“I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

“I am… sorry for that.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but neither did he blame his godfather in particular.

Severus seemed to deflate at that, and sank into one of the nearby chairs. “You nearly died last night, Draco,” he said. “Whatever you ritual you performed, it certainly worked. Every Death Eater who passed through the vanishing cabinet has died. Greyback also succumbed to his… injuries. Being the perpetrator, what do you suggest the Headmaster and I do with you?”

“You could always put me out of my misery.”

“That would be assisted suicide, you little bastard,” he said, but looked more exhausted than angry.

“Is it really suicide if you’re doing the world a favor?” Draco said sarcastically.

There was a sound suspiciously like a laugh from beyond the curtain, and Severus rose to his feet at once. His wand was drawn and poised to attack before Draco had even processed what was happening. Severus pulled back the curtain to reveal the disembodied head of a rather chagrined-looking Potter, whose body was presumably hidden within the folds of his infamous invisibility cloak.

“Potter, how— _how_ dare you!” Severus said, more livid than Draco had ever seen him. “Two hundred points from Gryffindor! Detention with Filch until the summer holidays! Don’t even bother going to your Head of House, Potter. Just go right to the Headmaster’s.” He towered over Potter, who nonetheless seemed to expand with a rage that rivaled Severus’.

“Take as many bloody points as you want! I don’t care!” Potter said hotly. “I just wanted to know how he did it! And why! Why _anyone_ would do something so terrible!”

“As if that’s your right—”

“Dark magic, if you must know,” Draco said loudly. “What with me being a _dark wizard_ and all.”

“But why would you defect, then? Voldemort is a dark wizard, isn’t he? You lot call him the ‘Dark Lord,’ even.”

“Our so-called ‘Dark Lord’ is merely some self-important half-blood who’s a pathetic excuse for a _true_ dark wizard. He has no proper lineage upon which to draw his knowledge from, so he must rely on us for it. Worse yet, we let him,” he said, growing more irate the longer he spoke. “The Gaunts may be an old family, but they certainly are not a respected one. No shame in their deviant behaviors, nor in their ignorance of the old ways. Who knows what happened to their family grimoires. He may be the Dark Lord, but he does not have the _blood_ that I do; and therefore, does not have the same magic.”

Draco could feel the wolf rearing its head within him, and the loss of his shields left him uncomfortably close to the unruly tangle of his thoughts. Severus clearly wanted to interject, but seemingly refrained for his sake.

“But why follow him to begin with?” Potter said, shrugging off the cloak.

“Ask my grandfather. I’m sure _he_ was convincing when they attended school together.”

There was silence.

“You could have let them in. For a while now, surely. If you were capable of something like this, then you must have fixed the cabinet ages ago. Or, at least devised a more effective method of killing Headmaster Dumbledore. I mean, that was you, right?”

“Obviously. But I knew he was going to die anyways. Why bother offing him when it was going to happen regardless?”

“ _What?”_

“Draco—” Severus began.

He laughed meanly. “He hasn’t told you—Harry Potter, the Chosen One? His favored student and Child of the Prophecy?”

“Dumbledore’s going to die?” Potter said, looking faint. Then he turned towards Severus, who looked inscrutable. “Snape, you _knew_. You knew all along! What were you going to tell people when it finally happened?”

“I owe you nothing, Potter, least of all an explanation!” Severus said, in lieu of providing any kind of an actual answer. “As for the latter, ask the headmaster himself.”

“How could he lie to me? For months? What am I going to do after he’s gone? I can’t defeat Voldemort without him.” Potter appeared so genuinely distressed that Draco almost felt sorry for him. But he only had the emotional capacity to pity one person at a time, and currently, that person was himself. Besides, it was _Potter._

He sighed. “You asked me why I defected. I already told you, but I suppose you want an easier answer. I’m afraid no such one exists. There’s too many valuable bloodlines here, besides; and they’d have killed whomever they pleased if I had allowed even one of them in.”

“Y-you’re just saying that to be cruel. That can’t have even crossed your mind. It’s too… mercenary.”

“Am I supposedly some sort of altruist now? It’s ironic that becoming a murderer would improve your opinion of me. I assure you I’m just as terrible as I’ve always been.”

“Malfoy, you’re such a—”

“I’m what? A bastard? A blood purist? A vile, filthy little half-breed? I won’t deny those accusations. I’m fully aware of what, exactly, I am. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Infuriating! That’s what you are! As if I’d say either of those— _those_ things to you, let alone anyone else. Besides, I’m just a half-blood, after all. Wouldn’t it be awfully hypocritical of me to talk down to you because you’re a werewolf now?”

The term _werewolf_ sickened him. “Better a half-blood than a half-breed, Potter. It isn’t that you’re not a pureblood, really; it’s that you were raised by muggles, which makes you little better than a mudblood. It’s that you’ve no knowledge of our culture. You don’t know what a grimoire is, or even the magical alignment of your family. That the Potters are a famous line of gray wizards whose bloodline dates back to Ignotus Peverell? _Hah!_ How could the prophecy have chosen you, of all people, to save us? You don’t even know your own history!”

Potter stepped closer, eyes manic. “Living with muggles was out of my control! You don’t think I would’ve chosen to live with Ron’s family—or with anyone else for that matter, if I’d had a choice? I’ve never had a choice!”

“How terrible your life has been,” Draco sneered. “I feel so sorry for you right now. It’s not as though everyone adores you, or anything. Shall I begin to list your admirers first, or would you rather I start with your acquaintances?” He seemed to have struck a nerve, as Potter looked one more snide comment away from attacking him.

“I don’t what the public thinks of me, and I certainly don’t care what _you_ think of me!”

“Yet here you are.”

Potter sighed. “Yet here I am,” he agreed, after a moment.

“Anything else you’d like to interrogate me about?” Draco said sarcastically.

“What do you mean by ‘gray wizards,’ and why do you know more about my family that I do?”

“What I mean is that certain families are predisposed to certain areas of magic, and that they pass on this magic to their children. If the bloodline is old enough, then eventually members of that family develop certain magical alignments as a result: light, dark, or, more rarely, gray. That would be you, in this instance. As for myself, both the Malfoys and the Blacks are dark families, so therefore I am by nature a dark wizard; conversely, the Weasleys have been light long since before they migrated to England.”

Draco paused. “I was raised to abide by the old ways of our kind, Potter. This requires me to not only know my own heritage, but that of others’ as well. I’m sure the family spell-books are locked away in one of your vaults somewhere. All you have to do is go to Gringotts.”

“Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?”

“Did you ever think to ask?”

“No.”

“It’s up to you, then, isn’t it?”

A distant expression crossed Potter’s face. “Later, perhaps. When the war is over and I have time.” Sweet Circe, why was Potter telling him this?

“Did I ask to be privy to your personal issues, or are they simply being forced upon me since I’m physically incapable of running away?”

“One more thing.”

“If you must.”

“Why not let Voldemort in? He’d have rewarded you for it, surely; then you’d still have your family, and your—”

“Humanity?”

“If you insist on thinking of it that way, yes.”

“ _He_ may be mad but he’s hardly a fool. Imagine the destruction if he’d been let loose here—even with Dumbledore present!”

“Why not try to kill him with, er—whatever it is you did back there?”

“Aside from the Dark Lord being far too clever to imperil himself by attacking Hogwarts so directly, you mean? I didn’t even try to lure him in, considering I’m certain he’s tied his essence to something physical. Something I couldn’t destroy with the wards. Some sort of object, like a—”

“Like a Horcrux?” Potter finished.

 _Oh._ That made a great deal of sense, actually. Only a wizard as mad as the Dark Lord would ever attempt to make one. Soul magic tended to be… difficult. Everything Draco had read about them came from the oldest of his grimoires: the Sixth Book of Black Occult Philosophy, which detailed the process and its consequences at length.

“Potter!” Severus snapped, choosing then to step in. He had been spectating long-sufferingly for the duration of their argument, caught somewhere between exasperation and faint amusement. Now, though, he was simply furious.

“What? Like he’s going turn on us? Sure seems likely, after Malfoy bloody well murdered most of Voldemort’s inner circle!”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way. I expect an owl from the Mudblood in the post full of her most gracious and verbose thanks.”

“I’m sure _Hermione_ would love to congratulate you on your efforts.”

Draco bared his teeth at him. “Oh, I’m sure she would. The Mudblood does have a thing for dark creatures, doesn’t she? I’m more appealing than ever, now.”

At this, Potter finally lost his temper. He yelled something incomprehensible and leapt atop Draco, who was still bound tightly to the bed, and began making a very good effort to try and throttle him senseless. For his part, Draco alternated between laughing madly and choking as Potter’s calloused hands closed around his throat. Potter was truly furious and mad with emotion. He was everything Draco despised. His eyes had never looked so green.

Severus flicked his wand at Potter, who was raised bodily from the bed by one of his ankles. “ _Out_!” He shrieked, tossing Potter across the room, where he landed in a heap. “The Headmaster’s office, now! You can explain your appalling behavior to him. I will be by later to make sure you’ve gone, seeing as so far you’ve proven incapable of following even the slightest instruction!”

“Yes, Potter. I’d like it if you’d kindly piss off so I can finally kill myself in peace!” Draco yelled after him. Potter started towards his bed again, paying no mind to Severus’ wand, which was still raised threateningly.

“I’d be surprised if you actually went through with it, Malfoy, because I think you’re too much of a coward to actually do anything of the sort. So, I’m sure you’ll still be here after today, and that you’ll actually have to live with what you’ve done.”

“On second thought, maybe I’ll take you with me—Chosen One or not!” Draco snarled, snapping his teeth. He thrashed against his restraints.

“I hope you do! I hope you fucking do!”

“OUT, NOW,” Severus said, with a note of finality to his voice. “Or there will be consequences!”

“I’m sure there will be ‘consequences,’ _sir._ In fact, I’m looking forward to them,” Potter shouted. “Enjoy sleeping in the Slytherin dormitory, Malfoy. They’ll be glad to have you,” he said, and then left in an awkward flurry of limbs.

After Potter’s departure, Draco sagged back into the bed, feeling suddenly exhausted. His presence had been an easy distraction, but now all he had was his godfather and the silence. It was almost like a little death.

“What’s going to happen now?” He asked when the quiet had grown unbearable, not looking at Severus.

“That depends entirely on you, Draco.”

“Speak plainly, sir.”

Severus sighed. “The Dark Lord is looking for you. Malfoy Manor is infested with Death Eaters. You have no home or parents to return to. Due to the events of last night, rumors about your… health have already begun to spread amongst the students.”

“I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?” He asked, thinking of those that had been present when Potter had dragged him in.

“The students, you mean? Those that could walk did and Potter aided the rest. They’re staying in auxiliary quarters located elsewhere in the hospital wing. Your wolf rather dismantled the infirmary proper,” Severus said, gesturing somewhere past the curtain. His face had soured upon saying the word “Potter.”

“Good.” He had carefully not flinched at the mention of “your wolf,” but it had been close.

“The Headmaster and I disposed of the bodies. The cabinet has likewise been destroyed. All that now remains is you. Moreover, as Potter has seen fit to inform you of the Dark Lord’s weakness, we can hardly let you leave unsupervised.”

“As though you would have otherwise.”

“You aren’t a prisoner.”

“Oh, really?” He said with great feeling, jerking his chin at his restraints. “I must have misinterpreted _these_ , then.”

Severus tapped his wand once on the bed, and the ropes disappeared. “Those were for your own safety as much as anyone else. You kept trying to—to hurt yourself.” His face betrayed no emotion, but there was a faint melancholy present in the cadence of his voice. Draco’s face grew hot.

“I’m ready. I know I’m ready. I’ve been dreaming of this day for nearly a year. There is nothing for me here anymore, sir. You’ve said it yourself. Let me go.”

“No.”

“Sir, please—”

“You are going to live, Draco. I will make sure of it.”

“Don’t,” he pleaded, feeling the wolf surge up within him. A low growl ground its way up his throat, and he dug his nails into each temple as if that could quell its power. Absently, he noticed that the runes on his palms had scarred over.

“I swore an Unbreakable Vow to your mother that I would protect you from harm. Should you die, then I would as well.”

“ _What?”_ Draco said hoarsely.

“You heard correctly. It seems our fates are irrevocably bound now, whether you like it or not.”

“ _Why?_ Why would you do that for me?”

“I am not quite so cold as you may think, Draco. I’ve watched you grow up from a clever, if impetuous boy and into a young man who I am proud to call my godson. Perhaps you do not feel similarly, given your response. But that has no bearing on our shared bond.”

He felt the loss of his shields more keenly than ever in that moment, as Draco could not entirely suppress the tears that welled up then. After this came the shame. It had become an all too familiar feeling recently. He pulled his knees to his chest and leaned forward. His chest and back both protested at the movement. In the distance, he could hear the mournful howls of a wolf.

Severus continued, “It is too dangerous for you to stay at Hogwarts any longer. Your defection will be common enough knowledge soon in Slytherin, and your condition is impossible to hide at this juncture. Later today, two Order members will be by to transport you to one of our safe houses. The Headmaster will speak to you further about your actions in the Room of Requirement there.”

Draco said nothing, and when it became clear that he was not going to speak again, Severus let out a low exhale and rose to his feet. He did not say anything before he left, but there was something heavy about the silence that made Draco think he wanted to.

It seemed to him like he’d traded in one prison for another. Only this one was bereft of his parents, and left him with even less options than before. He was more alone than ever. What could he do—just obey? He couldn’t kill himself now, not without doing the same to Severus in the process. Something dark and primal within him rebuked the thought. But what was left for him, then? The prowling inside his head increased. The wolf hated feeling trapped. That was one thing they could agree on.

Draco laughed. It became clear to him that he couldn’t go with the Order. He needed to leave. But it would never be safe for him out there, not with the Dark Lord searching for him; if he was ever going to live, rather than simply survive, then he would have to kill he who was supposedly un-killable. Knowing what Horcruxes the Dark Lord possessed and how many he’d been mad enough to make seemed the place to start. Potter was the only one privy to that information who would be willing to share or malleable enough to give it up. And he could be convinced, surely. Draco’s experience with dark magic would make him a valuable resource, and more than that—he knew about Potter’s family, which was so clearly a weakness of his. This plan was going to be dangerous and likely ill-fated, yet Draco saw no other recourse for himself. It had to be done.

He would begin by escaping.


End file.
